JB3 JAMES BOND: SPECTRE des attaques!
by Dan Bivens
Summary: Just as Bond is readying himself to, officially, take out Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the man who indirectly caused the events leading to Vesper Lynd's suicidal demise, SPECTRE hits MI6...and takes an injured M hostage! 007 to the rescue?
1. Chapter 1

**James Bond 007 in...**

**SPECTRE ATTACKS!**

Chapter 1

"Well, Q, old man," called the quintessential, at least in his own uniquely skewed view, MI6 agent dressed as if he were currently on his way to some sort of ceremony, instead of Q-branch beneath MI6 headquarters at 85 Vauxhall Cross. "You and your white-smocked assistants certainly seem busier than usual. What's the occasion?"

"Bond," grumbled the man with the bushy eyebrows and slightly stooped stance and a shamed shake of his head. "Weren't you supposed to bloody be here an hour ago?"

As the well-dressed 007 swiftly relived the recent byplay with a mousy-brown haired, though still lovely, executive secretary named Ms. Jane Moneypenny, a ghost of a smile perilously close to a smirk dominating his handsome mien...

"Uh, I had an important meeting to attend prior to appearing before your austere Self, Q."

"Balderdash," snarled, almost merrily, the person everyone now readily referred to as Q, thanks to this sandy-haired, steely blue-eyed British operative. "Before you receive your next top secret assignment from M, 007, perhaps it would be prudent to take a look at the latest 'tricks of the trade', as it were, that could actually keep you alive long enough to complete your mission. This way please."

Once again, as 007 straightened his expertly knotted necktie, whilst training at least part of his magnificent multitasking mind to the few female technical assistants assigned to Q-branch that James would, indeed, deign to "date"...

"Here we have a few more of those extra-special wristwatches," Q proudly pointed out in regards to half-a-table containing neatly arranged wrist-worn timepieces as much "spy-master" paraphernalia as they were extremely expensive luxury articles: Omega, Rolex, Cartier, etc.

"And now," said Q with a slight sigh, much like a man with more on his proverbial plate than he had the time to adequately attend, "on to a few new entries in the 'gadget game'."

The two strode toward a secondary section of the below-level wing, as it were. The area around which quite a few smock-wearing individuals, with IQs no doubt damn near double that of the average man or woman, spend endless hours working out indubitably innovative devices.

"First, we have a very clever little item," Q quite ecstatically stated as he picked up a pen that, aside from the fact it was, indeed, an expensive implement for writing a letter to a loved one, seemed to be able to do little else.

Such was soon to be delightfully demonstrated by Q as much more. "Looks like a gentleman's ink pen..."

"Yes," expertly explicated James Bond with as much emotion as a man of means might afford anything of such taste and social significance for the upper-crust crowd. "A Dunhill Sentryman Swarovski Crystal, I believe. Limited Edition, naturally. Somewhere in the neighborhood of two thousand, four hundred and eighty-three pounds sterling, if I'm not mistaken. Quite lovely."

"Yes, yes, " heavily heaved Q while languidly redirecting 007's attention to the attractive fountain pen's true intent. "We've developed, at a price at least a thousand times its 'street worth', some sagacious anti-threat utilities. Such as..."

Looking about at the gathered gents in white smocks ranging from mid-twenties to late-fifties, all quite tense as far as James could conclude, before Q finally indicated one of the younger men with a sharp gesture and sharper pitch, "You there, uh...Rodney. About time you made yourself more useful than usual. Take the pen when prompted."

"Y-yes sir, Quartermast--," began the glasses-wearing nerd-for-hire, before quickly correcting himself in front of the Number One Double-Oh. "I mean...Q."

After some simple manipulation of the clip and body of the otherwise ordinary pen, save for its supposed price had it been a more or less plain Dunhill, Q nodded for Rodney the Nervous Nerd to take it from his own outstretched hand.

It became clear to Bond that this was most definitely not an unchanged Dunhill Sentryman Swarovski. Such was visibly established to be the case once the pen was no longer in tactile contact with Q's always-in-agitated gesticulation extremity.

As Rodney suddenly stiffened with bespectacled eyes insanely large, while clearly unable of simply letting go of the Dunhill writing implement, James simply shrugged, "So what, Q? It electrifies in the same manner that might be accomplished by a standard street Taser or..."

"Not 'electrifying', 007," Q cut in with a grand grin gracing his typically cantankerous countenance. "The near nano-level electronics inside set up a special electromagnetic field that interacts with...as well as interferes with...the human body's natural nerve impulses, basically electrical in activity. So much so that the person, preferably an enemy of the crown, could not move or even think until said device was deactivated by the touch of the proper person whose prints are rapidly read via its preprogrammed micro-computers. Then..."

Q calmly demonstrated such by simply grasping the pen twixt thumb and fingers of his hand, whereby Rodney the Nervous Nerd was once again his previously spasmodic Self.

"Uh, e-excuse m-me," stammered Rodney while running the fingers of the put-upon appendage through hair as unruly as any James Bond had yet to spy, no pun intended! "But, uh, I th-think I need to use the f-facilities."

He was holding his pants-protected privates and quite comically trotting toward the far side of the sub-floor section, no doubt dribbling a tiny trail of unwelcome urine in his wobbly wake.

James Bond, 007, cast an incurious scowl of impassivity at the ink pen and its still-smiling-with-self-pride in his work branch head.

"Is that all it can do, Q?"

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Of all the things James Bond, 007, could've done by way of any reaction at all regarding the redesigned antipersonnel pen with more than one wondrous functionality, this was, without hesitation, the worst. It was also as anticipated by Q as the return of rain to London.

"We wouldn't be much here in Q-branch, Mr. Bond," groused the stogy gentleman with the bushy brows, "if that was all it could do. Now...please pay attention..."

Dutifully devoting such to the authoritative head of MI6's below-ground R-and-D department, 007 resigned himself to a measure of silence as Q continued his talk and decidedly detailed demonstrations.

Such as...

"If you were to twist the clip thus," proudly explained Q as his sometimes restive fingers followed along such elucidation. "Then point the tip at a target...so."

Stepping swiftly out of the probable pathway of Something from fountain pen nib to human-shaped silhouette situated three meters out, the gathered male and female smock-wearing techies seemed to already realize what Bond had yet to see.

Such suddenly caused 007's interest to become most explicitly piqued, as...

Shhhhhfffffffooooofffff! BOOOMM!

Everyone, even Q, couldn't help but turn protectively away from the explosive report caused by the rocketing away, far faster than a bullet from a rifle, of a seemingly normal nib that, in fact, was something significantly strong enough to destroy three-fourths of the human-shaped silhouette target.

"As you saw, 007," Q finally proffered even as a second replacement point of said pen popped out of its innocuous upper half. "That setting not only primed the rocket-propelled writing tip, which has a small amount of explosive plastique within, but homed in on the target via a micro-laser sighting system. And, as you also saw, a backup point, just as explosive as the previous tip, drops instantly into place. There are two other rocket nibs contained inside the basic body of the Dunhill."

"Most impressive, Q," James Bond said with a devilish smile and gleaming blue eyes. Demonstrating much more ready interest than mere minutes earlier. "Would I be correct, Q, in assuming such still did not end there?"

"You know me so well, don't you, Mr. Bond?" quipped Q, causing his ever-present assistants to shoot slightly bollixed looks toward their usually curmudgeonly leader. "There is, indeed, one last antipersonnel utility to this seemingly unsophisticated contrivance. Observe, 007..."

This time Q twisted the entire tip assembly some 180-degrees around, then held it a half-meter from a table containing all manner of miniature microphones typically utilized for...

"A 'bug sweeper'," James Bond quite correctly reasoned, noting that the closer the supposed pen came to the miniature microphones, the more it made an easily identifiable beeping to properly point out said "bugs" that were, in point of fact, completely operational. "Excellent."

After returning the triple-operating pen to its default form and absently handing it to Bond, Q continued, "Now, aside from the usual collection of articles and items, for which you are already very knowledgeable, such as can be carried in your leather-bound briefcase..."

As the two of them walked along in the below-level Q-branch, 007 gave a glance to the briefcase in question standing open on a metallic table with its various interior items in easy sight. Such as: the special spring-loaded/delivered dagger; the multi-function cellphone with its wealth of antipersonnel utilities; as well as the detector-proof false bottom, both for his holstered Walther PPK as well as all accessories necessary to turn a pistol into a wood stock-steadied weapon complete with silencer extension and telescopic scope; as well as a number of smaller articles like extra ammo clips and miniature grenades no larger than a peach pit.

"This next item will have to be loaded into the boot of your DB5," continued Q as he led James Bond into a niche just off the primary part of the work areas of Q-branch. A niche wherein rested...

"That looks a lot like a jet pack," 007 said as his steely eyes squinted in order to more readily study the super-sleek design of something significantly lighter than the short-hopping design from the mid-60s. "But the Bell Rocket Belt was at least twice this size. And its shape..."

"It has pull-down piloting controls," Q cut in as he gestured toward the currently recessed throttles-on-armrests. "Which is simple to use and accounts for takeoff and landing as well as all desired direction alterations once in flight. See?"

"As I recall, Q, no design ever offered the flier much more than 30 seconds before the fuel was used up."

"That's true, 007, but my staff and I have virtually tripled that time," Q answered with a sigh and a shallow nod. "But, if you're ever in a situation where the only out is, quite literally, straight up, it could definitely deliver you to some safe haven within its one kilometer continued-travel radius."

"Interesting, but..."

THMMMMM!

Breeeet! Breeeet! Breeeet! Breeeet!

"What the hell...?" exclaimed Q even as the tremors loosened some solid sections of the sub-floor region basically safe from such super-explosions at ground level.

By the time James Bond straightened his stance, his holstered Walther PPK now in hand, he said, "Explosion. A sizable one at that. MI6 is under attack!"

"Who the bloody hell would dare such a thing?" angrily growled Q at the thought of such a seemingly implausible possibility.

"I don't know for certain, Q, old man," said a deadly serious and ready for action 007 even as he promptly made his way for the elevator leading in and out of Q-branch with pistol still tightly clutched in his gun-hand. "But I bloody mean to find out!"

"Alright, everyone!" Q called out after the elevator doors closed seconds following its lone occupant's prompt and determined entry. "Lock down all stations and execute safe shutdowns on all computer systems! The last thing we want is to suffer severe information lose at this stage. Bloody hurry!"

Though it seemed an eternity in the elevator, mere moments after exiting Q-branch below, James Bond stepped out into a world of worried perplexity and pandemonium as all sorts of MI6 employees flooded the first floor.

"What the hell happened?" Bond loudly implored of the first fellow operative with a weapon he passed.

"It's SPECTRE," the suit-wearing agent, though not a numbered member of the double-ohs, "they've hit us hard! We don't have all the facts yet, but it looks a lot worse than we first feared!"

"SPECTRE?" James murmured under baited breath as realization slowly settled into his fraught-with-dread forethoughts. Then his blue eyes widened and his gun-hand tightened about his pistol. "M!"

Nowhere near patient enough to take the elevator to levels above the first, 007 swiftly flew up the stairwell leading past other areas in order to promptly pop out onto the one wherein M's office was situated.

Passing several shot-dead bodies the closer he came to what he had already assumed to be a worst-case scenario for the center of British intelligence, another worry waylaid him.

"Moneypenny..."

Helping Ms. Jane Moneypenny to her feet, her hair of brown disheveled and sprinkled with pieces of plaster and dust, a roughly unhurt-though-shaken executive secretary sat atop her still intact desk very nearly in tears.

"James? Oh, thank God," Moneypenny managed as James maintained his hold on the Walter PPK yanked from a womb of soft-yet-solid leather from underneath his once-clean suit's coat. "I thought...I thought it was...them!"

"Them?" pondered and pressed 007, while also soothing a clearly disconcerted woman not meant for the hardships of field operation for which such as James Bond seemed born. "You mean...SPECTRE agents."

Nodding, a lost look to her beautiful brown eyes as tears threatened to escape again. Moneypenny would verbally verify what Bond's razor-sharp instincts had already anticipated.

"They...took her. They took...M."

Stepping to the standing-open doors separating executive secretary from executive director of MI6 itself, James saw the hard evidence with his own steel-blue eyes.

Overturned office chair and destroyed desktop devices, such as a computer and cordless multi-line telephone. None of which had anything to do with the explosions preceding SPECTRE's entry into the multi-floor headquarters at 85 Vauxhall Cross.

"Blofeld!"

Having uttered that two-syllable last name of the Number One over the **SP**ecial **E**xecutive for **C**ounter-Intelligence, **T**errorism, **R**evenge, and **E**xtortion multi-national organization of evil, the Walther PPK still tightly clutched in his gun-hand, James Bond 007 silently swore to not just rescue M from clear-cut captivity...

But to coldly kill Ernst Stavro Blofeld once and for all. Just as he had done, without a word of affirmation from M, to the mysterious Mr. White in partial retribution for the needless death of Vesper Lynd.

First, he'd pop down to Q-branch and take all he could carry on his person as well as in his already-loaded-with-devices Aston Martin DB5.

And then...

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Bring her around."

"Yes, sir."

As the acerbic scent of ammonia-based smelling salts assaulted M's nostrils, she rocketed into an aroused, though physically restrained, state.

Blurred eyesight steadily stabilizing. Remembered misery assailing limbs held firm from securely cinched straps of black leather that were part and parcel of the hospital-type bed whereupon she had lain following the antithetical attack upon MI6.

"Welcome back to consciousness, M," sneered the man dressed in a drab brown outfit very similar in style, or lack thereof!, proudly worn by maniacally merciless members of any communist-minded collective. His hair was white and brutishly brushed backward from a full, but not fat, face. His deep-set eyes as piercing as what might be believed of any beast of the night silently stalking potential prey.

"You must be," a grimacing M managed through shards of agony shrieking from every extremity strapped so solidly to her bed's basic chrome framework. "Ernst Stavro Blofeld."

"Very good, M," nefariously nodded the Number One of this organization of evil with a vile smile. "Especially considering that I have gone to great lengths to not be photographed for the easy viewing of everyone from British police to MI6. How unfortunate for you, M, that your government did not take such steps to keep your handsome Self from being so celebrated."

"That's because," grunted the grand dame of the double-ohs, "MI6 operates as part of a form of government that believes in actual freedom. Your onerous organization, quite clearly, does not recognize such high ideals."

"If by that you mean," said the smirking Ernst, "SPECTRE is structured after a certain amount of communistic archetypes, then you are, in part, correct. However, SPECTRE is also, to some measure, a capitalistic entity. We simply do so through..."

"Terrorism and extortion," tensely interjected M as disgust dimmed much of her body-wide disquietude. "Part of the hated acronym: SPECTRE."

Blofeld laughed coldly, while promptly pointing out, "And as the 'R' stands for...revenge. You and your double-ohs have, for a substantial number of years, cost SPECTRE both profit as well as power. No matter how many of your 'licensed to kill' secret agents our organization obliterates...you, M, simply replace them with operatives of equal if not exceptional 'talent'. The latest being...007. Quite possibly the constitutive 'thorn' in SPECTRE's aphoristic side that has surreptitiously stepped out of MI6. Even to the extent of 007's identifying, interrogating, and systematically assassinating SPECTRE's greatest asset...other than myself, of course: 'Mr. White'."

"And you have kidnapped me," M mused, subordinating her suffering so such did not shadow her words, "in hopes that Bond will blindly follow clues callously left behind in order to attempt to liberate me? Do you really believe 007 could be so easily...?"

"Surveillance has verified it, Number One," a shadowed person stated from some unseen section of the Spartan room in which M had been so abruptly awakened. "James Bond has exercised his military standing as a former Royal Naval Commander to arrange for the RAF to provide transport via a C-130J Super Hercules aircraft."

"No doubt to attempt a nighttime skydiving drop into the forested area surrounding this headquarters," nodded Blofeld with the uncommon canniness one would expect of SPECTRE's Number One. "Post security personnel all along the tree-line. Black camouflage and NVDs. Quickly!"

"Yes, sir!" came the quick and respectful reply that, M believed, bordered on outright terror. Which only solidified a long-held assumption: that Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the now known undisputed despotic boss of SPECTRE, via the unsanctioned catechizing of Mr. White by 007, had held tightly to the reins of power through the promotion of terror amongst his own operatives.

"You think Bond can't counter armed men using night vision devices in an attempt to stop him from fulfilling his self-devised directives, Blofeld?" M said with a sense of assumed salvation that had not played a part in her repartee' with Ernst since first awakening within a structure situated she knew not where. "Then you evidently have considerably less actual Intel regarding MI6...and James Bond...than you've so vainly avowed. 007 shall successfully circumnavigate your so-called defenses, Blofeld. And, when he does, not only you, but your entire team of terror mongers, shall be destroyed!"

Also for the first time since M was aroused to face this self-styled absolutist, Ernst Stavro Blofeld's smirk fell into a frown of faltering self-confidence.

"We shall see, M," he swore sinisterly just prior to repairing to the shadowy edges of the makeshift cell of solitary confinement. "We shall see."

"Bond," muttered M in a pensive prayer to the proverbial gods of British intelligence service, "if you were ever to prove me wrong about just how 'superior' you were to MI6...please, do so now."

Even as desperation dispelled personal pain, M began battling against the straps holding her arms and legs so firmly to the mental institution styled bed. Even though she basically believed in 007's remarkable abilities in counterintelligence, she still had to at least try to free herself. While awaiting the eventual arrival of James Bond.

And speaking of 007's secretive drop from a relatively high-flying C-130J Super Hercules...

Having availed himself of MI6 resources still active within the otherwise compromised repository of British intelligence, James had learned that those responsible for so arrogantly abducting M had taken her, via super-secret, so they thought!, private Learjet to an unnamed Pacific island off the eastern coast of Russia proper.

Apparently, as it turned out, Blofeld and the primary power base for SPECTRE had been secretively located here, under the proverbial radar of either the British or the Americans, ever since the historic collapse of the USSR.

But the blatant attack on MI6 and cold-blooded kidnapping of M had sufficiently supplied James Bond 007 with the unsurpassed aspiration to, at long last, single in on the eternal enemy of British intelligence, aside from SMERSH and its persistently still-operating pro-Communist membership of ex-Soviet military as well as ex-KGB bigwigs.

"Good luck, Mr. Bond!" loudly called one of the British military men attached to the C-130J that had flown from the British Isles across Canada, with in-flight refueling. To eventually enter into a HALO-drop flight status, at 28,000 feet, whereupon its cargo compartment's opened up to permit said drop.

The **H**igh **A**ltitude, **L**ow **O**pening para-dive of the properly equipped 007 survived the head-snap that was the inevitable end to a HALO once the special parafoil popped out to suddenly and swiftly slow his decent designed to defeat any operating radar. But such was so extreme, in regards to the requirements for professional paratroopers, that James Bond silently cursed himself for his decades of drink and smoke, whilst relying solely upon oxygen bottles at the outset of his HALO-drop.

Finally, after touching down a bit harder than hoped by the British secret agent, Bond swiftly and silently shed his HALO-required accouterments and stealthily proceeded with his special silencer-equipped FN F2000 automatic assault weapon. One that offered not only laser targeting as high-tech as any firearm of the 21st Century, but also the option of auto-launching 40mm grenades at targets with uncanny accuracy.

As was usual with 007 under such a seemingly impossible set of circumstances, like knowingly going against an unknown number of SPECTRE-trained/equipped persons, his multitasking mind quickly recalled the specifics of an FN F2000...

It could claim lightweight "bullpup" design, using an AR-15 magazine supplying 5.56 NATO rounds, and the charging handle was easily usable by "lefties" as well as "righties"; it sported a lased distance system to be displayed within a night vision-capable scope incorporated into the charging handle; all spent shells were ejected in a forward fashion similar to the P90.

In other words, the F2000 afforded James Bond with the best of two or more worlds in direct comparison to more standardized full-auto assault weapons, while handling lighter and easier. As well as much more accurate; even in proper comparison to his Walther PPK with silencer extension.

Already, via the NVD functionality of the firearm, 007 was sighting in on near-distant security persons armed with AK-47s and night vision goggles. With whisper-quiet reports from short, controlled bursts of the F2000, via the cover of closely aligned trees, Bond rapidly put down one enemy SPECTRE soldier after the other.

Thus rapidly, and with continued quiet, advancing his stealthily obscure positions closer and closer to the unalterable target: the super-secret, until now, primary SPECTRE HQ wherein his superior, M, could be located and liberated.

But also, and possibly much more important to James Bond, personally speaking, and the free world at large, politically speaking...where Ernst Stavro Blofeld could, at long last, be cornered and killed.

However, as fickle fate would so decidedly demand under such one-against-many odds...

Thuunnk!

"Oof!"

Thud!

As the formerly mysterious Voice from the Shadows, heard earlier by M, stood over the knocked unconscious by the butt of an AK-47 British spy, a heavy-set, though mostly muscular, dirty-blond male smilingly spoke into his smallish walkie...

"Simms here, sir," he gutturally growled with a growing anticipation pertaining to ultimately torturing the esteemed 007. "We have him."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

His head hurt more than at any time in his pre-007 past, when James Bond was merely a common operative for MI6 and had no mandated-by-M license to kill.

Bond could also feel the still-wet mat of sandy-blond hair on the rear of his head whereby the butt of an AK-47 had delivered him into darkness. As 007's vision quickly cleared and all his senses swiftly sized up his situation and surroundings, Bond readily realized he was securely lashed to a chair of cold metal in the middle of a room as sparse as such seemed necessary for intense interrogation purposes.

Above him was a bright light that illuminated only where the chair of metal, bolted down, 007 now noticed, to the cold concrete cellar-like floor. So blindingly bright that all else in the interrogation room of SPECTRE headquarters was swallowed whole by very heavy shadow.

"I know you're there," James Bond bravely barked. "I can smell your stench!"

Such a stinging statement brought forth two distinct individuals: one a dirty-blond both massive by mostly muscle and brandishing a sneer of evil. As deep-set eyes glared longingly at 007 with an indisputable desire for the nonstop utilization of torture.

The other dressed in a drab brown Communist-type outfit with white hair and a sneer of superiority that left little doubt about his hated identity...

"Ernst Stavro Blofeld, I presume," said James jeeringly. "I recognize the rampant holier-than-God look. You're even more of a cartoon caricature than I'd imagined. Nice 'suit'. Whose your tailor...Stalin?"

"And you are as I expected, 007," replied Blofeld as his singularly self-righteous sneer never wavered. "From all I'd heard regarding your rapid rise to the double-ohs, not to mention doing what no double-oh had done before by finding and killing 'Mr. White'...no doubt diligently torturing vital information from him prior to putting him down. Well, let's just say you seem less the 'super-spy' I'd come to believe you to be."

"I was 'super-spy' enough," Bond bravely avowed, "to not only find this quaint little island HQ, but successfully slaughter half your SPECTRE soldiers before this bastard slammed the back of my head. A lucky outcome for him, of course. Ordinarily such as he could've never caught me so unawares."

The insult simply caused the thick-set dirty-blond to snicker sinisterly, as he audaciously answered. "I ghosted you the entire time after your HALO jump just beyond the wooded area around our headquarters, Mr. Bond. I could've killed you long before you dropped the lesser 'soldiers'. But I wanted to...size you up. Plus, Number One wanted you captured rather than killed. Besides...this gives me an opportunity to ply my talents in torture. Again."

As the dirty-blond haired henchman merrily, as well as evilly, laughed, Blofeld stated by way of an introduction, "This is Simms. As you, 007, have no doubt deduced...his expertize extends into the truly brutal. The truly bloody. As you will, of course, experience...prior to your inescapable expiration."

Bravely avoiding such depressing repartee, James Bond brought the confabulation back to the reason for his HALO-drop onto said secretive isle of SPECTRE...

"Where's M? What have you done to M?"

"Why nothing, Mr. Bond," Blofeld replied proudly.

Only to have Simms sadistically add, "Yet."

It became clear to Bond that after his inflicted-by-Simms physical distress followed by the freedom of death, M would doubtlessly undergo a similarly sadistic situation. Bond's bloody demise would, indeed, swiftly lead to the torment of the matriarch of MI6, in general, and the double-ohs, in particular. Immediately preceding the singular solace of the cessation of her life.

Not only would Bond have to hold out through an unknown degree of cruciation, but he would work toward the ultimate liberation of M...whole and unharmed.

One thing that could definitely be said about the often obsessive-compulsive James Bond 007 was that the tougher the situation, the more impossible the overall odds, the more the man pushed himself in order to rise above it all.

Or die trying.

"Well, Mr. Bond," Blofeld finally offered half-heartedly. "Do you wish to save yourself significant sorrow and agony? Or does Simms get to do what he so dearly loves?"

A twisted smirk and almost masochistic snicker preceded 007's strong-willed response.

"Do your worst, Simms. I'm sure I've had middle-of-the-night leg cramps that had bothered me more."

After heaving a very heavy sigh of disappointment, Ernst said to his sick-minded associate, "Well, Mr. Simms...seems you shall have your way after all. Just don't kill him...until he's divulged everything."

"With pleasure, Number One," Simms snarled devilishly even as Blofeld faded into the surrounding shadows. "Welcome to the first tier of SPECTRE Hell, Mr. Bond."

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"AAAAAHHHHHGGGGGGG!"

"I am impressed, Mr. Bond," said the snarling sadist, Simms, even as 007's last shout of unprecedented pain repetitively reverberated about the otherwise Spartan room. "You have survived two tiers of torture without weakness nor surrender."

James Bond was badly beaten and bleeding. One blue eye swollen shut. The other dulled by the deeds done against his all-too-mortal form. Betraying the truth about just how brutal SPECTRE's "tiers of torture" had, thus far, truly been...

First came the beatings made all the more barbaric by the fact Simms slipped a pair of Bar-Ray brand lead-lined black gloves, normally meant for radiological activities in some medical facility. Each blow to body and face was, thus, significantly stronger and more calamitous than with normally gloved or non-gloved fists. Breaking ribs. Mangling mandible bones. Fracturing the frontal orbit bone about Bond's right eye.

Then came the malicious use of standard acupuncture-type needles for the express purpose of inflicting near-infinite agony to the nerve ganglia clusters at key regions around throat and torso. Exposed to such via the ripping open of 007's bloodstained white shirt.

Such was so severe that he silently longed for the return of beatings via Bar-Ray lead gloves.

"Unfortunate for you, Mr. Bond," coldly continued Simms as his hands hovered over the next tiers of torture. "You see, I must continue...until you have disavowed your allegiances...and revealed everything you know, through your double-oh status...about British intelligence."

That one non-swollen steely blue eye looked over the mobile collection of time-tested torture contraptions: an electric shock system, of course, similar to the "Tucker telephone" type, first devised and used by Dr. A. E. Rollins at Tucker State Prison Farm of Arkansas in the 60s; a renovated version of the Malay Boot, whose sole purpose was to slowly apply pressure around the ankle area, or lower, in order to excruciatingly crush flesh and bone; an antiquated pair of thumbscrews as exquisitely agonizing now as they were when introduced in Medieval Europe; an automated 21st Century version of the la garrucha that utilized high-tech motors and pulleys to inflict flesh-slashing pressures to the upper arms, down to the bone, while literally dislocating the shoulders; a simplistically fashioned tean zu, solely designed to crush fingers via the slowly-applied pressures via the tightening of interconnected twine about small splints of obdurate wood.

All leading up to Simms sadistic piece de resistance...

Something that, all by it's lonesome, held out the greatest terror for James Bond: crocodile shears, based upon pincers from as far back as the Spanish Inquisition. Altered slightly so it could clamp down hard around a man's "pubic pride" as tiny metallic teeth dug into the spongy surface. As if applying pressure via the closure of said crocodile shears was not overtly torturous enough, the finale to this sadistic technique would inexorably separate a man from that "pride"...permanently.

Even as Simms started to attach the leads of the electric shock system, based upon the "Tucker telephone", an already pain-racked 007 shifted into "super-spy mode" in order to take advantage of the brief interruption of his horrid interrogation.

"Stop!" painfully panted Bond, using his very real agony to sell all he was about to say. "I...I give up. You...you win. You win. I'll...I'll tell you everything. Everything! Just, please...stop. Stop."

Setting aside said electrical leads and rolling a simplistic stool, used by physicians when examining and consulting with their patients, a little closer to the still restrained-via-rope 007. A triumphant smirk on his full, but not fat, face.

"Very well, Mr. Bond. I'm listening."

"There's," began Bond while lying like the MI6-trained agent he, in truth, had already proved to be. "There's a special pen...in my coat's breast pocket. It...it contains sensitive eyes-only...information. For this...as well as subsequent...double-oh operations...near this region...of the world. T-take it. Take it. Just...don't torture me...anymore. Don't torture. I'd rather...I'd rather die quickly. Quietly."

James Bond 007 was already well-schooled on SPECTRE-type torturers to know that, no matter what, Simms would still tend to torment the man from MI6 to an agonizingly eventual end. If Simms' sense of superiority were as rampant as James had deduced, such a sickening situation would now never take place.

Having taken the special pen, seemingly simply an expensive Dunhill Sentryman, from said breast pocket of said coat taken off 007 prior to him being bound to the bolted-down metal seat in this heavily shadowed Spartan room for interrogation...

"How does it work?" asked Simms somewhat suspiciously while looking over the beaten, bleeding Bond with a warning glare.

"If you'll untie me," James said with a purposely problematic tone and affectation. "I can show you."

Snickering nastily, it became clear that the overconfidence 007 had counted on still swelled within Simms, as the larger man laugh-snorted, "Come now, Mr. Bond, you must take me for a fool. Tell me what to do and, if the information meets SPECTRE's ideal of actionable Intel...perhaps I shall simply shoot you through the head and hand you more rapidly to Death's Arms. Rather than proceed with these last six tiers of torture I've used since my recruitment because of my...talents."

Continuing to take advantage of the overconfidence of this vile advocate of anti-humane treatment of prisoners for SPECTRE, as well as a little acting talent so necessary for a successful spy with double-oh designation...

"...and, now, just twist it to..."

As the diminutive device suddenly set loose electromagnetic energy to instantly seize any and all neurological operations inside the sadistic son-of-a-bitch seated on the roll-around stool barely a half-meter away...

James Bond 007 made swift use of one of the seemingly innocent, and expensive, gold engraved cuff links at the ends of his shirt's sleeves. Something he could never have implemented prior to removing the threat presented by Simms.

Twisting its thickness, he then tugged so as to expose a stainless serrated-edged flex-saw. A virtually invulnerable-to-breakage mini-blade, yet as flexible as string, that 007 used to steadily saw through the thick ropes so securely holding him to the bolted-to-concrete floor metal chair.

Though it was, indeed, difficult, due to the broken ribs combined with the "acu-torture" that'd taken a toll on torso clusters of nerve ganglia, James Bond finally freed himself.

After retrieving his shoulder holster-carried Walther PPK, lying alongside his earlier removed suit's coat, taking a few seconds to screw in the silencer extension...

Pfftt!

After an arterial spray sent forth by a bullet blasting through his head dropped a dead Simms to the smooth surface of the shadowy floor, 007 swiftly swept out of the darkened area in order to, first, find M and, then, locate and kill Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

For the good of the free world...as well as for revenge over Vesper Lynd's suicidal demise.

END OF CHAPTER 5


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6/Conclusion

Though the broken ribs screamed and the agitated-by-"acu-torture" nerve ganglia in his torso shrieked, 007 stayed in "super-spy" mode. Making his way out, quietly and craftily, of the makeshift room for interrogation as intense as any agent of any caliber, let alone the double-ohs, had been dutifully disciplined to take.

His hand holding the silencer-affixed Walther PPK tightened with trigger finger ready to smoothly squeeze off rounds of 7.65mm ammo into any enemy of MI6. Anyone whose significance to SPECTRE might range from insignificant to essential.

Starting with a black camouflage uniformed SPECTRE soldier here...

Pfftt! Pfftt!

And another there...

Pfftt! Pfftt!

Until, having silently shot seven SPECTRE soldiers, in addition to the sadistic Simms...

Click!

"Halt!"

After rapidly pocketing his silencer-extension and holstering his emptied weapon, 007 resorted to what he had always done so well...

Thwunk! Thwack!

"Oof! Uhn!"

Thud!

He relied upon a mix of extreme street fighting-martial arts physicality to, as swiftly as possible considering his current hurt state, send the soldier-in-black down hard...

Snap!

Before breaking the bad guy's neck and, still stealthily-yet-swiftly, proceeded further through the shadowy halls of this SPECTRE headquarters in order to, gradually, make his way to where M was being held hostage.

Something successfully accomplished some sixty minutes after freeing himself from an expert torturer whose brains he'd blasted out. Not to mention the almost dozen-and-a-half armed SPECTRE soldiers he'd killed via, first, firearm and, finally, forceful fighting techniques uniquely used by James Bond.

M had worn herself out from her defeated efforts to free at least a single limb from the black leather straps securing her to the hospital-type bed. But the distinctive sound of someone rendering unto Death the black-garbed guard outside her room's closed, locked door raised the probability of hope within her weary, and wary, heart.

After utilizing standardized plastic keycard, in the possession of the SPECTRE soldier standing guard, who now lay lifeless on the floor of the hall juxtaposing said door...

"Bond! Thank God," M emoted with a swell of relief, before forcing such from her often, by necessity, aloof forethought. "Hurry up, 007...before that monstrous megalomaniac makes his way back!"

"My sentiments exactly," agreed James while working to free his superior as rapidly as possible, even though the aggregation of agonies, suffered at the sinister hands of Simms, sent sickening sensations throughout his head and upper body. "I trust you are quite capable of ambulatory action, Mi...?"

"Don't say it, 007!" quickly cut in M with laser-like glare that warned her rescuer not to speak her name, from which, or so it seemed, the M-designation for this MI6 director arose.

A smirk of bemusement helped lift the heaviness of the situation, not only from his own tormented mind, but from M's as well. Which apparently worked, because, even as she slowly stood, M's usually scolding countenance allowed for an amused smile to briefly flash on her face.

But the seemingly impossible still lay before both: 007 and M would have to, cautiously, escape SPECTRE headquarters before getting "word" to what James Bond knew awaited, virtually invisible, several kilometers out in the Pacific Ocean.

After silently-yet-much more swiftly sneaking past the corpses created by Bond's initial escape and tireless attempt at a successful rescue of the head of all double-ohs...

"Halt!"

Two operatives, darkly dressed as all the SPECTRE soldiers on this secret little isle, armed with AK-47s, blocked both M and him from front and the rear. So racked with the wretchedness brought about by broken ribs, jaw, orbit bones of the left eye, etc., as well as the realization that M's safety was of paramount import...

"Okay, gentlemen," James easily lied, "you have us. We surrender."

M screwed her handsome-for-her age facial features into unspoken puzzlement, even as a stony-faced James Bond lifted his hands in the feigned forbearance expected of such surrender. Seemingly simply placing said hands behind his hurting-like-hell head.

Picking up on the probable ploy, M did the same, even as both soldiers of SPECTRE eased toward them with the reckless sense of seeming superiority.

As for 007, he used the feint to put his retrieved from "interrogation room" watch to work as Q-branch had intended: by depressing down on the crystal face of this expensive Omega timepiece, he secretly released small super-sharp shurikens; popping out a scant centimeter from the middle of the Omega wristwatch, it was simplicity itself for James nimble fingers to grasp two of them.

Then...

Sshhhh-thnnt! Sshhhh-thnnt!

Thud! Thud!

"Let's go!" Bond energetically urged as he and M stepped up their escape's pace.

Of course, as she'd half-expected upon reaching their egress from one side of the secretive SPECTRE HQ, James came to a sudden, though thoroughly thought out, halt...

"You go on, M," instructed 007 with a simplistic gesture. "Head for the tree-line while following the less-visible edges leading away from this structure."

"You're going after Blofeld, aren't you?" rhetorically asked M as the retaliatory look in Bond's blue eyes told the truth. "Don't be a fool, James. Nothing you do now will bring back Ms. Lynd."

"No," 007 agreed with a strength as necessary as his secret agent training and Q-branch created equipment. "But perhaps she shall rest easier knowing 'Number One' has paid for his part in what happened to her. Go! I'll be along in a another few minutes."

Before M could quibble further, James Bond 007 disappeared into the darkened depths of SPECTRE headquarters once again.

"Godspeed, Mr. Bond," M sighed to herself as she stepped through a secondary exit to quietly and quickly make her way, in a roundabout route, toward the tree-line.

Meanwhile, in an office suite as plush as any would believe of SPECTRE's singular leader, whom had dressed like a common Communist...

Before Blofeld even knew of his enemy's entry, Bond had attacked from the rear to grasp Ernst in a stranglehold guaranteed to crush his windpipe with little additional leverage...

"What the...? Ah!"

"Stop struggling or I'll kill you much more slowly than originally planned!"

Going limp and listening closer to James Bond's intense whispering into Ernst Stavro Blofeld's left ear...

"You knew this moment was coming, Blofeld. You knew that I could never avoid the opportunity to avenge Vesper Lynd. Even if it meant my own demise in the process."

"You're," Blofeld barely managed amidst the stranglehold of 007. "You're making...a mistake...Mr. Bond..."

"I don't think so...Ernst," James muttered menacingly as his lust for Justice/Revenge reared within his heart and soul.

"Gaakk--"

After Blofeld fell limp and lifeless against Bond, the satisfied, at long last, 007 eased the corpse down to the highly polished floor of Number One's affluent office suit.

It would be at that moment an awful fact was disappointingly exposed. One that left the double-oh depressed and outraged.

In the act of strangling Ernst Stavro Blofeld, and subsequently crushing his windpipe in the process, ripped up what one might have assumed to be flesh. Save there was no sign of released blood.

Tugging with the tips of his fingers, James managed to remove the mask skin-like latex from someone apparently posing as SPECTRE's still-alive-somewhere Number One.

"Bloody hell!" swore 007 barely beneath his breath as he broke into a light-but-determined trot out of what was,most likely, not even the true suite belonging to Blofeld. The real Blofeld. The alive, still!, Blofeld. The bastard Blofeld. Literally as 007 one day would discover.

Like it or not, James Bond had no choice but to head for the self-same tree-line in order to utilize a shoe-hidden infrared flare that could only be seen via the British stealth ship secretly situated, by this point, just close enough for Q-branch created FLIR cameras with which to detect it.

After which, an inflated raft carrying a **S**pecial **B**oat **S**ervice team, similar to the Americans' SEALs, would arrive, virtually without a sound, to afford rapid-response rescue of M and James.

Long after their return to London proper, and the gradually-being-rebuilt MI6 headquarters at 85 Vauxhall Cross, James Bond would still blame himself for failing to eliminate the real Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

"Some day," 007 swore to himself from the sterile confines of the MI6 infirmary, where he had undergone medical procedures designed to properly repair ribs, jaw, and bony orbit about the left eye. "I will kill you...Blofeld!"

Though the physical and, in some respects, psychological damage done by Simms, at Ernst Stavro Blofeld's orders, would and could be completely counteracted, the intense hatred regarding Number One and Bond's need to bleed him dry...could never be alleviated.

But, being James Bond, 007, he would still successfully fulfill any and all assignments sent his way by a greatly appreciative, though never voiced, woman whose name seemed literally reflected in her precise designation: M.

Until fickle fate deigned to bring both Bond and Blofeld together again.

END


End file.
